


The Feast of Lovers

by raiyana



Series: Prince of Greenwood [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beltane, DTP may fest, F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Growing up in Beleriand, Thranduil is unfamiliar with all the customs and traditions celebrated east of the Misty Mountains... which is not always pleasant.His wife isverywilling to teach him, though.





	The Feast of Lovers

“But why are we having a feast?” he asked, following her slender shape through the trees, her bow slung over her shoulder and her arse more than enticing encased in soft doeskin, her hips swaying with each step.

Nínimeth laughed, turning back to smile at him.

“Because of the Lady,” she smiled. “She who is the love of the Great Hunter and whose footsteps bring the flowers to bloom…” her brows furrowed lightly, “you did not have this?”

“Vána?” he asked, catching up with her. “But she is not one of the Aratar…” Respected, yes, but not considered as divine as her sister – he had never heard of a feast solely for Vána before. “Should you not be celebrating Yavanna, the Life-Giver?” he asked, looking at the first green buds that had seemingly appeared from nowhere over the past few days – one of the miracles of nature he attributed to Yavanna’s grace.

“We praise Yavanna for bountiful harvests, but this… this is a time for lovers,” Nínimeth laughed, “although more than one life may _begin_ this week.” She winked at him, and Thranduil felt the blush spread across his cheeks as he caught her meaning.

“So you… lie together?” he wondered, taking her hand. He might like this lovers’ feast, he thought, running his thumb lightly over her soft golden skin.

“Is that not what lovers do?” she wondered, leaning in to kiss him. “There will be dancing, also, and music – I will try not to step on your toes if you want to do some of your Sindar dances.” She blushed slightly, tugging him along and weaving through the trees – he knows she’s very fond of those dances, and he can’t claim to be unaffected by the feel of her body in his arms, the sheer joy of holding her close that fills him to overflowing with love.

“And you do this… every year?” he asked, frowning suddenly as a thought appeared in his mind. She loved him, yes… but she had taken part in this feast before, and suddenly his heart was afire with jealousy, letting go of her hand as though her touch burned like dragonfire.  

“Of course we hold this feast every year,” she replied, pulling back her hand slowly, tilting her head and staring at him. “What troubles you, my love?” she asked softly.

He winced at the moniker. _How many had she named thus?_

“How many?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at her, trying not to imagine her crimson locks tumbling over the shoulders of someone else, her head thrown back in passion as another’s lips tormented her neck and made her moan. A muscle in his jaw worked furiously, the fingers of his right hand flexing, needing to grip something. A sword, preferably, with which to skewer her imaginary lover’s body. A neck, perhaps, seeing his pale hand wrap around _someone’s_ throat with a vicious feeling of satisfaction that scared him with its intensity. I am no murderer, he told himself, though the thought of doing violence to whatever stranger had shared _his wife’s_ body was extremely pleasing.

“How many what?” Nínimeth wondered, confused by his sudden anger.

“ _How many lovers?_ ” he hissed, failing to mask the hurt in his voice as he glared at her. In his mind, a parade of ellyn were marching past, everyone who had ever given her a friendly smile or a too-fond-perhaps greeting looking at him smugly as if to say ‘ _she was mine, first_ ’.

“Oh,” she murmured. “Oh, my Hwin, my _Thranduil_ , is that what troubles you?” The sound of amusement in her voice did not at all make him feel better, the smug faces of the line of ellyn in his mind only growing smugger. Nínimeth danced back to him, reaching to cup his face. Thranduil felt frozen, almost unable to bear her touch but at the same time craving it like he needed air, wanting her to reassure him that she was his, would always be his – as he was hers. “I love you,” she said, “only you. _Hervenn_.”

“How many?” he gritted out between clenched teeth. He didn’t want to know, but he _needed_ to know at the same time, staring into her soft green eyes.

“Over the years?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

Thranduil nodded tightly. _She_ had been _his_ first, after all, and part of him felt cheated that he could never be hers, knowing that she would never feel that bright spark of joy at discovery that he felt every time he thought of that first time – and all the ones that had followed. He had thought, when he first shared himself with her in Joining, that she was too good, far more pleasurable than he had thought possible – and now he knew why.

Nínimeth sighed. “Twenty-two,” she said, shrugging lightly.

Thranduil felt the air leave him in a whoosh as he staggered backwards, staring at her. He didn’t know why it mattered so much, only that it did, because how could she have shared what they shared with so many others – how was he any different from _them?_

“Hwin, please,” she whispered, reaching for him, “it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” he laughed brokenly, mind whirling, filled with smug smiles he had never seen before. “ _Doesn’t matter?_ ”

“No,” she said, pulling back her hand when he flinched away from her. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You tell me you were wed before, and then you go and say it doesn’t matter?!” he cried. “How long, then, before _this_ ,” he gestured at the empty space between them, “ _doesn’t matter?_ Perhaps I should simply leave-” It would break him, to give her up, but perhaps it was not yet too late – they had not been wed for a year, yet – perhaps he could forget her. Even as he thought it, he knew he would never not love her, would never not want her – her smiles, her touch, the golden-sunlight-on-green-leaves feeling of her fëa twining with his in the bond that sang between them – _his Nínimeth_.

“Not wed!” she yelled back at him, angry now, but he hardly heard her, feeling himself staring into a void of years filled with only despair – _how much time did he have left before she moved on?_ – and breathing as hard as if he had been sparring with Bronwe for hours on end. “I have wed only _you_ , no one else!”

Thranduil froze when her lips met his, the hands fisting in his tunic pulling him close to her, but then his focus shifted, blazing anger transmuting into savage lust – a need to possess her, to erase even the memory of another’s hands on her flesh – and he gripped her tight enough to leave bruises on her hips. Pressing his fingers into her arse, lifting her until she wrapped her legs around his hips, Thranduil kissed his wife forcefully, clutching her soft flesh. Moving one hand up to tangle in her long hair, pulling it tight against her skull as his tongue sought to erase any possible memory of another from her mouth, biting at her lip hard enough to taste blood, he thrust into the cradle of her hips, feeling her rub her centre against him. Kissing him deeply, desperation and anger making it nearly savage, Nínimeth rubbed herself against his front, feeling him press into her hip.

 “You’re _mine,_ ” he snarled, pulling back to draw a breath before resuming the attack on her mouth, Nínimeth’s harsh growl as she tore at his clothes immensely satisfying. When her fingers found flesh, scoring her nails down his chest, he groaned, panting into her mouth. He felt the sheath of her small dagger against his forearm, his fingers reluctant to undo their grip on her arse, but Nínimeth clung to him tight enough he fumbled the blade free, exacting vengeance for his tattered clothes and splitting the seam that ran along the crack of her arse, pulling her leggings apart with a single savage yank.

Nínimeth had pulled him free of his own clothing, throbbing hard in her hand and Thranduil did not know if he entered her or she engulfed him, the feel of her slick warmth surrounding him blowing al other thoughts from his mind except one.

“ _Mine_.”

Thrusting into her slick flesh, he groaned, growling into her mouth at the pleasure of it, wanting to savour it as much as he wanted to take her hard and fast, spill himself in her and feel her join him in overwhelming bliss. Nínimeth’s strong legs clenched tightly around his hips, her hands tangled in his hair as she stole his every last thought with her kisses, blazing like fire in his soul. Panting between biting kisses, he moved in her, feeling the way she moaned, clenching ever tighter around him when he stroked across that spot inside her. Moving down, he captured her nipple in his mouth, nipping at the tight bud – a flash of painful pleasure that made her shudder against him, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“What is my name, _Thranduil_?” she hissed, wrapping her lips around the tip of his ear, biting the sensitive flesh once. His hips stuttered, a low keening growl issuing from his mouth, half-muffled in her chest. “Tell me!” Attacking the leaf-like point with her tongue, she made him gasp out a moan, clutch her tight as he thrust into her flesh.

“ _Nínimeth_ ,” he groaned, “Nínimeth, please…” _Please be mine… always. I love you. My Nínimeth._

He felt her shudder, keening in his ear as she flew apart, the blazing power of her soul dragging him into the starlit voice with her.

Thranduil felt tears running down his face, still more than half hard inside her even though he had fallen to his knees, one hand tangled in her hair as though he could hold on to her that way, the other lying on her thigh, fingering the torn fabric of her leggings.

“Only you,” she whispered, kissing tears off his cheeks only to have more fall from her own eyes to land on his face.

“Never leave me,” he replied hoarsely, chasing her lips with kisses that were soft now, nearly pleading. He _needed_ her, more than he thought possible.

“You named me, Hwin,” she murmured softly, making him feel like he was missing an intrinsic point, but losing the thought when she kept up the soft kisses. “I am always your wife.” Running her fingers down his body, gentling stroking where before she had clawed, Nínimeth kissed him. “It was simply pleasure exchanged, nothing more,” she whispered, kissing her way along his jaw-line.

His arms tightened around her, and the husky quality of her voice made him jump inside her, shuddering a little at the pleasure of it when her lips found his ear.

“None of them could have given me this – they were not _you_.” Clenching around him, she licked the shell of his ear playfully.

“I love you,” Thranduil said, pressing a kiss against her skin. “And I still want to kill every single ellon who has had you, “ he added, even if the violent urge was less overpowering now, “no matter how little it may have meant.”

“My husband… so possessive,” she hummed, rocking slowly against him, making him swell inside her. Lifting her head, she grinned at him, “You are the only ellon I would want to be my son’s Adar.” Stealing his surprised gasp in a deep kiss, Nínimeth drew back with a chuckle, her green eyes sparkling with joy as she looked at him.

“…What?” he spluttered, the subject change making his slow thrusts falter as an image of Nínimeth bearing his child filled him with a surge of _want_.

Nínimeth laughed, hiding her face against his neck and kissing the burn scars there softly. “Not yet, perhaps,” she admitted, “I rather fancy you all to myself for now…” Nipping lightly at his ear to make him moan, she teased him with her tongue. “One day we shall have children, my love.”

“Nínimeth…” Thranduil groaned. He had not even begun thinking about raising a family with her, but suddenly he realised that the idea was… enticing.

“Perhaps we shall make one during the Spring Festival…” she teased, and he needed _more,_ the slow motion of his hips not enough.

Striking that spot inside her, the way she clenched around him driving out any thought of elflings.

 _I love you,_ he thought, smirking at the way her eyes closed in pleasure when he rocked into her body in the best way possible – he might not have done this with others, but he was determined to bring her the greatest pleasure she had ever felt. Feeling a certain smug possessive pride at the way she moaned, Thranduil kept his eyes on her breathless face, bathing in the love that shone from her eyes when she spoke.

“I love you. My Thranduil.”

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Thranduil moved, pressing her back against the soft grass, his shoulders flexing with each thrust of his hips, holding his weight with arms that trembled when she clenched around him. Nínimeth smiled, reaching up to caress his ruined cheek, and pulled him down for a kiss. Looking at up at him, she let him read every twitch of pleasure on her face, bask in the way her soul moved in tandem with his, love mingling into the bond between them with the brightness of the sun.

“Nínimeth…” he whispered, her name a plea and a blessing all at once, a clever twist of fingers sending her hurtling over the edge, trying to hold back his own pleasure to watch her but getting swept away by the searing white-hot pleasure, his soul singing with her with love and joy. _You’re mine, my own, my wife_.

_And you’re mine. My love, my husband, my Thranduil._

 

This time, he returned to his own mind lying flat on the verdant grass, feeling wrung-out and boneless with pleasure, the fingers of his left hand twined with Nínimeth’s.

“Please,” she whispered, turning her head to press a kiss against his naked shoulder, “ don’t be upset, my beloved. I am only _your_ wife.”

Thranduil laughed, suddenly joyful, tugging her closer, her head resting on his chest, running his fingers through the crimson tangles of her hair. “I love you, wife,” he murmured, kissing the crown of her head. “Tell me about this Feast for Lovers,” he said, squeezing her hand and feeling slightly silly for his earlier jealousy.

“You’ll learn that the feast of Love can be…” Nínimeth’s smile turned teasing, rolling over onto her elbows and grinning at him. “… _very_ sensual, my love,” she said, her tongue coming out to flick across his nipple with a soft chuckle.

“Oh?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow in question. Nínimeth’s grin widened.

“There is this drink – you have seen the barrels that the married ellith break ice off in the mornings, throwing it away?” she asked.

“Yes?” he nodded – he’d been told it was a process of distillation, creating a potent wine from berries called ‘Oromë’s delight’.

Nínimeth hummed knowingly. “The wine is strong,” she said, trailing her fingers down his bare chest to tickle his ribs, carefully gentle around the scarring that marred his skin, “but it is not only headiness it inspires. The wine of Love can light a fire in your flesh, making your desires many-fold stronger… this,” she said, running a single finger in circles around his nipple, watching it stiffen in response with a smirk, “would be enough to make you want to take me – it lights a fire in the blood, my love, a fire that can only be quenched by seeking pleasure with one’s…” bending her head, she nipped at the straining flesh, chuckling at his groan, “lover.”

Her voice had dropped into huskiness, and when she smiled at him, Thranduil felt the flickers of desire burst into flames in his heart, wanting her all over again. “I find that unlikely,” he croaked, “I do not think I could want you more than I already do.”

Nínimeth threw her head back in laughter, getting to her feet and throwing a teasing wink back at him, the doeskin leggings no longer hiding her arse from view, the bottom of each cheek peeking at him when she took a step.

Thranduil groaned.

Getting to his feet, he righted his own leggings, giving the tunic up for a lost cause and letting it hang from his shoulders with a shrug.

“You’re a terrible tease,” he called after her, picking up the knife he had stolen and the bow he had discarded unnoticed.

“But I love you,” she called back, laughing happily, “and you love me.” Turning back, she flashed him a brilliant smile. “Now come on before we’re late for dancing!”

Thranduil chuckled to himself, following his woodland sprite through the vast forest. He was looking forward to this Feast of Love that his adopted people celebrated – and not just for the chance to taste the wine she mentioned.


End file.
